My Gold

He's saying things that I can understand, but I've been staring at the night sky for too long to believe in little things.
I've been weaving gold with my fingers since as far back as I can remember; each weave beginning with a story that I could remember so well like it was right now, ending with a peaceful passing and a new understanding.

I've been counting threads of gold long woven and laced into fabric that I've designed. Tracing my finger tips over the bumps, I'm breaking. Into beautiful.

Veil, covering my face, laced with gold. Wondering, If I hid the fear underneath the gold, securing it over my neck with my fingers, maybe I could nod here and there to show understanding of these things he's saying, without revealing my eyes.
Still, my gold, he wants to see them, my eyes, my fingers. If he has eyes to see, he would clearly see them for what they are. Yet I'm as blind as he. He, shamelessly so, me, grappling for some sanity in the midst of this uncertainty.

This will end with a peaceful passing and new understanding too, I'm sure.